


To Lighten the Load

by dreamlittleyo



Series: I'm Not Sorry (Kinky Dice Oneshots) [9]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And So Good For Each Other, Breathplay, Established Relationship, M/M, Manhandling, Mild Painplay, Rape Fantasy, Roleplayed Noncon, Romance, They are so in love, utter sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 12:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17264336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Alexander comes home late to find his boyfriend still awake, stressed about work and stubbornly refusing to go to bed. But that's okay. He knowsexactlyhow to take George's mind off things.





	To Lighten the Load

It's late as hell when Alexander gets home from campus. The library—open until midnight in deference to finals week—finally kicked him out. The middle of the night isn't ideal for traveling on foot, but both the law school and George's house are in safe neighborhoods, and there's nothing worrisome in between.

Waiting for a bus would be fruitless, and Alexander won't call his boyfriend for a ride home, not at an hour when reasonable people are sleeping. George wouldn't shame him for his study habits, but Alexander still prefers _not_ to fuck up the man's life more than necessary. He already feels like an interloper more days than he wants to admit.

He spares an idle fantasy toward buying a car and a parking permit next semester, but he already knows damn well that won't happen. Even without having to pay for rent or groceries—a tangible perk of moving in with his older and obscenely wealthy boyfriend—his expenses are a challenge. George would offer to buy him a car if he so much as hinted at needing one, but the idea pricks Alexander's pride in all the worst ways. He's made it this far on his own; even the support he's already accepted is a conscious struggle for both his mind and heart.

No matter how rationally he might recognize a different truth, he can't shake the instinctive feeling that because he didn't earn these things himself, he's not allowed to have them.

He and George have talked it through endlessly, and Alexander has ceded a lot of ground to common sense. Moving in with George rent-free. Letting George handle the food, the internet bill, the other costs of sharing a household. He can't really refute the logic that George would be paying for those things with or without him.

But George does not touch Alexander's scholarly expenses. Doesn't buy him clothes or computers or notebooks. So a car? Fuck no. Alexander will move out first.

He won't have to move out, of course. George would never offer absent a perceived invitation—and if refused, he sure as hell wouldn't push.

When Alexander reaches their driveway, he's surprised to find lights still on in the house. The kitchen makes sense, given Alexander's late and lengthy absence. But George's office on the second floor is bright too. Unusual for George to still be awake at this hour, even on a Friday night. The man is a morning person to an almost compulsive degree. Short of some special occasion, he has _never_ made a point of waiting up for Alexander, who is not so much a night owl as morally opposed to sleep.

Alexander toes his shoes off just inside the front door, then deposits his books and computer in the living room on his way through. He heads for the stairs, climbing quietly in his stocking feet. He's not trying to be sneaky, but there _is_ something to be said for reaching the second floor without announcing his presence. It allows him to hover unnoticed at the open door to George's office and take in an honest view.

George is hunched over an obscene quantity of paperwork. His desk, an L-shaped behemoth that fills an entire corner of the room, is completely covered in notes and printouts and thick case files. The fan in George's desktop computer is whirring loudly, and the enormous monitor has half a dozen different documents tetrised across the available space. George's shoulders are tight, his posture exhausted.

Never mind that it's impossible to see his face at this angle: George looks absolutely miserable.

Alexander crosses the room with louder steps, deliberately trying to broadcast his presence now that he's here. George must be truly distracted, because he still startles when Alexander's hands grip his shoulders.

"Hey," Alexander says. "Why are you still up?"

"The Sullivan court date has been moved forward a full month. We present opening arguments on Monday, and my co-counsel just announced he's leaving the firm."

"Fucking _Jefferson_ ," Alexander growls in sympathy.

"Yeah." George caps and sets down his pen, slouches in his chair and lets his head tip back to bump against Alexander's chest. "You're home late. What time is it?"

"Almost one." Alexander kneads the tense muscles beneath his hands—not a proper back rub—but good enough to earn him closed eyes and a low, appreciative groan. "You're gonna regret the hell out of this tomorrow, old man. Christ, you're so tense I'm not sure how you'll get _any_ sleep tonight."

"Mmm," George agrees tiredly. "How did torts review go?"

"Fine." Alexander gives a shrug even though George won't see it. He doesn't need to put into words the perpetual contradiction he feels in his schoolwork, total confidence balancing against equal certainty that he hasn't done enough to prepare. He is going to stun and impress his professors; he is going to fall on his face and fail so hard his scholarship dries up and vanishes.

George knows this. George knows _him_. And all the self doubt can be left unspoken.

"You're going to do great." George's eyes open and he peers up into Alexander face, fondness glinting in the expression.

"So are you," Alexander says. Then, tapping George's shoulders and taking his hands away, "Come on. You can work on this mess tomorrow. Tonight we _both_ need to unwind." He is not usually the one suggesting they set their work aside, but he's also not completely clueless. He can tell if he leaves this room _without_ his boyfriend in tow, George will keep at his research until dawn and then spend the next several days reeling from the number he's done on his sleep schedule.

Alexander is well-accustomed to disordered sleep; he knows how to cope. But George is a creature of steady habits, and he will spend the weekend miserable if he pulls an all-nighter now.

Fortunately, George pushes up from his chair without protest. Doesn't even bother turning his computer off as he follows Alexander into the hall—it will probably go into sleep mode soon enough—but he does turn off the light on his way past.

There is teasing in George's voice when he crowds close along Alexander's back and murmurs, "Did you have something specific in mind tonight?"

"That depends." Alexander stops moving down the hall and leans back into George's eager heat, making sure to rub up against him as much as possible. "How much energy do you have to spare? You game to let me put up a fight?"

" _God_ yes." Powerful arms wrap around Alexander's stomach as George nuzzles at his throat.

This honest eagerness has been hard won. Alexander remembers the early days of their relationship, when he first learned George enjoyed fantasies of holding him down. Of hurting him. He remembers the guilty recoil when Alexander offered to fulfill those fantasies. The wild disbelief, the wariness, the refusal to consider that Alexander could sincerely want to be touched with violence instead of tenderness.

The vast difference in their ages didn't really help—still doesn't—not when George gets it into his head that he might somehow be taking advantage. Hell, Alexander wasn't even legal to drink when they met and started this thing. Damn right it took a while to bring George around, and for Alexander to be sure of his own place in George's life.

They're on surer footing now. They've negotiated the complicated terrain so thoroughly that there is no misunderstanding each other, and it's wonderful. Some days it still feels strange and impossible to exist like this—to know exactly where he belongs—but Alexander loves it. He loves George Washington, with a strength of feeling that sometimes terrifies him.

He needn't fear George will take the words at face value when he abruptly changes tone and snarls, "Get your fucking hands off me."

Of course George doesn't comply. He only holds on tighter when Alexander tries to squirm free. It's a half-hearted escape attempt; Alexander could probably get away if he made a real effort, but he's far too tired to fight with all his strength. Plus, he suspects George is too exhausted to overpower him if he does.

But the attempt still gets him exactly the response he wants. A more crushing strength in the arms around his stomach. A sting of teeth at his throat, just above the collar of his shirt. A low rumble of disapproval from deep in George's chest. Alexander wriggles but can find no leeway. Instead of dislodging the mouth at his throat, he earns a harder bite, vicious enough to make him gasp aloud at the pain.

"Let me go," he breathes helplessly. "You can't—"

"I can." George steamrolls right over his protests and propels him forward into the bedroom.

It is deliciously quick work, the way George strips him down despite Alexander fighting him at every turn. In a matter of minutes, Alexander finds himself naked on their bed—lying on his side with George a glorious inferno along his back—one of George's hands wrapped around his throat. Alexander grabs hard at George's forearm, but he can't dislodge the powerful grip.

George's other hand is wrapped just as surely around Alexander's cock, stroking him without hurry. Squeezing hard enough to hurt whenever he offers any suggestion of resistance.

There is something perversely thrilling in the fact that George is still entirely clothed. The contrast between them this way, the strength and size of him along Alexander's back, the way he makes Alexander feel so small and vulnerable. The hand at Alexander's throat is not tight enough to block his air, but it's close. A threatening weight that sends giddy adrenaline along his nerves.

George has barely spoken since they entered the bedroom, though Alexander has made plenty of noise. Cussing and protesting and begging to be released—a frantic litany that he knows drives George wild in all the best ways. He cries and sobs and gasps every plea short of his safe word. And through it all he can feel the hot line of George's clothed cock, grinding against his backside in lazy thrusts.

" _Stop_!" Fuck, he doesn't know how long George has been touching him—surely not that long—but Alexander is already at the precipice.

He's so close it hurts.

George clearly understands the true meaning behind Alexander's tone—the entreaty to get him there, to finish it, to grant him the satisfaction he needs—because an instant later, the hand stroking his cock speeds faster. Perfect and maddening. The fingers curled around his throat squeeze tighter, choking him, and Alexander tumbles desperately over the edge.

His orgasm is a desperate thing, all the more powerful for the fact that he can't breathe. Pleasure courses through him, overwhelming his senses and blurring the rest of the world away. Leaving nothing but the whirlwind of release, the hands on his cock and throat, and the impossible heat of George's body behind him.

Alexander _does not_ pass out, but when his awareness of the solid world returns he feels lightheaded. Bleary and warm and utterly sated.

He is also vividly aware that George is still hard, plastered greedily along his back. Patient but also making no effort to restrain the small rutting movements that rub his arousal against Alexander's ass. The hand has vanished from Alexander's neck, and gentle fingers trace soothing patterns across his chest. Calming him and easing him down. Bringing him back to reality.

"Good?" George presses a smile into his skin.

"Amazing," Alexander agrees. He squirms in George's arms—not to get away this time, but to turn and lie face-to-face so he can claim the kiss he still has not gotten tonight. George responds by holding him tighter, turning the kiss into something deep and claiming and filthy. Proof, if Alexander needed any, that his boyfriend is still riled and hungry.

When the kiss breaks they are both breathing hard. Alexander grins as he slips one clever hand between their bodies and palms George's stiff cock through his pants.

"Want some help with that?" he offers, ducking forward to nuzzle beneath George's jaw.

George manages to sound both wry and breathless when he answers, "If it's not too much trouble."

Alexander gives a hum of approval and opens George's fly.

**Author's Note:**

> Sappy smut? Smutty sap? Kinky-as-fuck boys who are so in love they kill me? Take your pick and happy new year!
> 
> (I also hang out **[over on Dreamwidth](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/)** , if you'd like to find me there.)


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